


Five silly things Dean kinda wishes he hadn't done. Even if they were fun.

by Hope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Multi, Pre-Series, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-01
Updated: 2006-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-03 10:24:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mainly gen, various non-explicit pairings (hints of John/Dean, Sam/Dean, Sam/OMC. Some Dean/OFC)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five silly things Dean kinda wishes he hadn't done. Even if they were fun.

**1.**

Okay so there was this one time after Sam left - okay, so there were _lots_ of times after Sam left, some that Dean remembers and some not so much, and some he wishes he could forget.

So anyway. There's this one time in _particular_, still kind of unreal in Dean's mind, maybe because it was in a city instead of some hokey backwater and that scape's always kind of ... removed, and unreal; or maybe because, okay, he's thought about it a bit. Not too much, mind. Memories fuck up if you recall them too often.

City, not backwater. Coloured lights and cigarette smoke; rescued, threadbare chairs instead of creaky booths or uniform barstools. Disappearances going on in the streets webbing out from this particular bar, or at least that's where they'd managed to narrow it down to - the police reports weren't all that succint in pin-pointing time and place of death.

They walk in together, and straight away it's strange. Not just the city-strange. Strange because for the first time in a long time, Dean doesn't feel like the odd man out. It's nothing special, really, just a hazy boho place, warm-lit and inoffensive music.

Dad's easily the oldest person there.

Oldest and butchest, even; as much family resemblance as there is between them Dean's not felt as physically _different_ to Dad in a long time. Dad stockier, clothes older, a rough-edge to his features with his week-too-old beard. In fact, possibly the _only_ thing Dad has in common with everyone else in the bar, Dean included, is the fact that he has a dick.

They take a seat at the bar, at the shorter side of it where they can see who's walking in and out, and Dad's sets his back to the poster-plastered wall. They order beers. Before the beers arrive, Dean goes to the bathroom.

When he pushes on out of the men's room again, there's someone sitting on the other side of Dean's empty seat. From where he's standing, Dean can only see the tense curve of his shoulders and the shock of blond-white hair, but that's enough to identify him as they guy they're looking for for the past 48 hours; the guy from the police report, the witness. Dad's realised it too; Dean can see it in the slant of his body, easy and non-threatening, forearm resting easily on the edge of the bar as he loosely cradles the beer bottle, head dipped a little and tilted, watching the blond guy, talking.

"Look," Dean hears the blond guy say when he gets close enough, voice rising. "I just wanna have a quiet drink, okay? Maybe you should just--"

"Hey, man," Dean says when he's standing behind them. He puts a hand on the back of Dad's neck, slides it round onto Dad's shoulder as he manouevres himself back onto the stool. He doesn't take his eyes off the blond guy, gives a wide smile. "It's okay, he's with me." He settles, wriggles forward a little; withdraws his hand from Dad's tense shoulder to take the beer in front of him, slicking an expression of pleased surprise over his face. "For me?" he says, hazards a sideways glance at Dad, heart thrumming rapidly like it's only just caught up with him. "Thanks, Daddy."

"Sorry," the blond guy says, mumbling a little, turning his face down to stare at his own drink.

"Hey," Dean says, taking a swig and nearly choking on the fizz. "No problem. You, uh... You don't look so good. Everything okay?"

They stick around a few minutes longer after the blond guy ends the fruitful conversation then excuses himself, long enough for Dean to finish his third beer while Dad pushes the mostly-empty bottle of his first away. Dad's upper arm brushes Dean's as they walk to the door, and they get just 'round the corner before the sense-memory of the barely-there friction's replaced by the bone-hard points of Dad's fingers gripping Dean's bicep, rough shove-and-yank and Dean's boots scuffing a little as he re-shifts his balance.

"Dean," Dad growls, the tone tied enough to Dean's puppet strings to make him want to jerk upward, makes a tickle of desperate guilt jerk upward. "You. _What--_"

"What?" Dean says back, too-quick and breath-quick and open to interpretation. Dad huffs, mouth working and jaw tight. Dean pushes the moment edge-over, back into safety and unhooking Dad's claws, "We got answers, didn't we?"

"Yeah," Dad says, turns and starts walking again, easy. "C'mon, then. Night's not over, yet."

**2.**

It was stupid, really fucking stupid, and he thinks he probably knew that from the the start but okay, admittedly he was already a little drunk before he left that goddamn motel room in San Jose, and really, what the fuck was he doing in San Jose in the first place?

It's May. Beltane was two days ago, but today's a Friday, so that's excuse enough to nudge the celebration onward a little. Or maybe they've been partying for three days, now. It's still early in semester. The novelty hasn't worn off, yet.

Dean fits in just fine, bed-hair and artfully torn clothes, beer in one hand, smirk on his lips. It's crowded, and it's outside; Californian spring and the heady, clean smell of down-trodden grass. He's by the keg when he sees Sam's stupid head. His stupid, stupid head. Recognisable by his stupid haircut, and the stupid way his shoulders kind of slope in when he's around other people. It's not even his stupid height that Dean recognises first, because Sam's sitting down.

Dean starts to step forward but the ground around the keg's a little slushy from all the foot traffic and spillage and he has to kind of grab at people and things around him for a moment just to, you know, make sure he doesn't slip and get trampled to death or something.

The sudden unexpected movement makes his vision reel a little bit, and fuck it, he just has to _stand still_ for a while before he can step forward again, okay? Just a little bit longer. There're a lot of people between him and Sam, walking back and forth and it's like the flicker of a computer screen on TV, the frame rates all mixed up wrong like stop-motion or strobe. Sam's shoulders hunching. Sam leaning forward and in as the guy next to him speaks into his ear. Sam laughing. Sam sprawling out a little lower on the chair. The guy next to him leaning in again. The guy's hand on Sam's thigh.

Dean's vision reels again as he turns, taking a few frames longer to catch up with his movement and even the dubbing's fucked as he starts walking away, because he can't hear the sound of his own footsteps on the ground, can't hear the jingle of the carkeys or the metal scrape as he misses the keyhole the first time and scratches black paintwork.

Stupid. Stupid.

**3.**

"_Daaaaaaaddyyyy!_"

Dean knew it. He knew Sammy couldn't last, wouldn't keep his word. Dean feels a little guilty about it, Sammy's clearly freaking out; and if Dean's gonna be totally truthful about it - yeah. He's pretty relieved, too. It _hurts_. Hurts more since he tried to get it out, just pushed it in further.

"_Daaaaaad!_"

Sammy has little fingers, he could have got it out. If he wasn't such a little freak-out. _Ow._

"_Daaa--_"

"Okay, okay, Sammy, just pipe down, all right? I'm here, what is it?"

"Dean stuck a marble up his _nose!_"

**4.**

When Dean's thirteen, he runs away from home. Just for a day. Dad doesn't even notice, never finds out as far as Dean knows.

He walks Sammy to the elementary school, and then goes on to the bus stop on his own. When the first bus comes 'round, the one that goes into town and drops people off at work instead of school, he gets on. Makes his legs move before he's had time to think about it; by the time he gets to the top of the steps his palms are cold-slick with sweat.

He's shaking, body tense as he sits on the edge of a window seat mid-way down the bus. Houses flit by the window, blocks of bland colour that his eyes blur against the strain of focusing on. After about twenty minutes of stop-starting, more kids start to get on, teenagers, Dean's age; replacing all the grown-ups trickling off to office buildings and construction sites the further they get into the small city. The sound in the bus gets louder and louder; shrill laughter and shrieking girls and the bus driver's impervious to it all, arms splayed wide to grasp the huge wheel.

The bus stops again and Dean sees the diamond-tile pattern of a high wire fence, red brick with painted white circles and he gets off the bus with the rest of the kids, swirling, giggling mass of them stomping up the pavement and through the gate, up the steps and into the wide, low-ceilinged hall. The smell is familiar; floor polish and mouldy sandwiches and when a girl smiles brightly and cocks her head, says, "You're new, aren't you? What's you're name?" He says the first one that comes to his head.

"Sam."

**5.**

He has a pocket full of the tiny, smooth pebbles from her drive, and he stands on the side lawn and tosses them with a loose, idle elbow until she comes to the window, soft _tap, tap_ replaced with her low whisper. "You fucker!" she hisses. "You fucker!"

Dean feels his face pull into an involuntary expression of surprise, more than a little hurt.

"Get the fuck up here!" she says, and her head disappears inside again and that's all the urging Dean needs; digging the toes of his sneakers into the familiar foot-holds of brick, hands hastily-dried on the thighs of his jeans gripping the down-pipe. He tumbles into the room breathless, and she starts beating him about the head and shoulders with loose fists.

"Hey," Dean says, grabbing for her wrists and missing. "Hey, hey _what?!_"

"Shut up!" she says, still whispering harshly. "Shut up, you fucker! You don't want to wake my fucking parents as _well_ as everything else!"

"As well as what everything else?" he says, backing up a few steps and stilling, still half-huddled against the onslaught, looking up at her. Her hair's a mess, all tangled up like she's been twisting at it and pulling at it, which he knows she does when she's preoccupied with something, he's watched her fiddle idly for hours. Her eyes are red-rimmed. "What?" he says "What?"

"Dean," she says. "Fuck." She puts her face in her hand, fingers bending into claws. Gives a brief sob. "I think-- Fuck. I think I'm pregnant."

She keeps her hands over her face, doesn't look at him, and on some level he's kind of glad of that. On every other level he's -- fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._ "You said--" his voice sounds as wavery as hers, not sharp though it feels that way in his throat, but she still flinches at the words. "You said you'd taken _care_ of it. That I didn't need to--"

"Yeah," she says, and her hands drop to twist in the waist of her sweater, eyes looking up and away and anywhere but Dean. "I-- I thought--"

"You thought _what?_" he says. "_Fuck!_" Dad's going to... Dad's going to _kill_ him.

"I don't know, yet, I don't know for sure, I just--"

She's freaking out for real, now, shaking and all and Dean doesn't feel that far from it himself. "It's okay," he says, still keeping his voice low, ever-wary of sleeping parents. "It's okay," he says. "We'll figure it out."

Three days later the werewolf Dad's tracking gets wise and heads west. Dean comes home from school to find the tiny-roomed flat already packed up, Sam already sullen in the back seat. There's no time, no time for anything and no way he'd ask Dad for it anyhow.

He sends her a postcard two weeks later, signs it with his name and the number of the post box in Topeka. Feels sick after. For months all he can think about is Topeka, an agony of anticipation, dreadful fantasies of what he'd find at the post box, or even _who_ he'd find. If she were desperate enough, god...

"Dean," Dad nudges him and he jerks upright and awake, half-slid down in the front seat. Sammy's snores come steady and even from the back seat. The car's still running, but still, and Dean peers out the windshield to where the headlights illuminate the glass front.

His eyes dart to Dad as soon as he realises where they are, hot-cold-sweat crawling over his skin, bile rising.

Dad's flicking through the stack of envelopes. "Here," he says, holding something out to Dean without even looking up.

Dean takes it. It's a post card. _It's okay,_ it says on the back.

**Author's Note:**

> http://angstslashhope.livejournal.com/1080412.html  
> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/45111.html


End file.
